


the last, greatest fic of 2018

by Anemoi, raumdeuter, saltstreets, tunafish



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Body Horror, Final Fantasy - Freeform, IN SPACE!, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 02:44:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17235845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/pseuds/raumdeuter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunafish/pseuds/tunafish
Summary: wherein one may find a prediction for the manchester city v liverpool match on the third of january in the year of our lord 2019





	the last, greatest fic of 2018

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redandgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/gifts), [brampersandon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/gifts), [ascience](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascience/gifts), [doubtthestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubtthestars/gifts), [selenedaydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenedaydreams/gifts).



> if you're seeing this and there are fewer than five gift recipients, it's because SOMEBODY has ungratefully rejected this, a labour of love and five litres of glühwein

It was a lovely day at the Etihad Stadium. The sun was shining and reflecting very nicely off of all of the empty seats. 

“Hewwo,” said Pep. He grinned at Kevin De Bruyne. 

“Kevin,” said Kevin helpfully, in case Pep had forgotten, and then he kicked a ball quite hard into the back of the net, hoping that that was what Pep had meant when he had said ‘hewwo’. It usually was. One time he had kicked a ball quite hard into the back of the net from a dangerous free kick position when he had still been playing in the Bundesliga and it had made Juergen Klopp rather unhappy and Pep did like it when Klopp was unhappy so perhaps that was why he appreciated it when Kevin did the thing again.

“Fantastic!” shouted Pep, hopping up and down on the sidelines and waving his hands around. “Fantastic, fantastic, top top goal, top top, fantastic.”

All the Liverpool away fans in the Etihad started crying. They were four nil down and Mohamed Salah had broken his shoulder again. Sergio Ramos’ ghost had manifested in Aguero in the 43rd minute, and Aguero did not even get carded, because Pep had bought off all the refs in the Sky Sports™ Premier League. 

“Beep boop,” said the robot ref, “another penalty to Manchester City”, and he pointed mechanically at the penalty spot. A few stray pound notes drifted from his gleaming chassis, except the Queen’s face had been replaced by Johan Cruyff. Pep’s private currency, currently accepted at all official Sky Sports™ stores.

There was a technical difficulty in the studio and the feed was mysteriously replaced by “AGUEEROOOOOOOOOO” screeches but no one noticed the difference.  When it cut back to the match Alisson was crying faintly into his banana suit and Kloppo was growling angrily. Without his dashingly handsome, lusciously-maned assistant there to hold him back, the crowd began to wonder how long it would take before he left his post and took Pep on...personally.

“That was never a goal!” he roared, his mouth opening so wide the camera could pick out every single one of his distressingly white and shiny teeth, and also the little dangly thing in the back of his throat, which wobbled alarmingly. “De Bruyne was offside by a mile!*”

_ *all measurements in this fic have been converted to customary for ease of understanding by an American audience _

“It was so,” Pep leered ever so smugly. He slid another pound note into the crevice of the robot ref’s upper torso. Everyone in the crowd (the Liverpool away fans, because there were no Man City fans present in the stadium, or at all in the world) could see that Klopp was starting to vibrate with rage. He moved closer to Pep. 

“Please stay in your technical area sir,” bleeped the robot fourth official, and then began to spark mildly under the force of Klopp’s wild-eyed gaze, which had an effect similar to a microwave on a ball of tinfoil.

“The technical area is just another limitation on my true form!” Klopp bellowed. If the fourth official’s hair had not been made of brushed aluminum it probably would have blown backwards.

Kloppo punched the air violently without the hint of celebration and overwhelming true love and joy that was normally present when he punched the air which he did on a fairly regular basis as he had a bit of an abusive relationship with oxygen which nobody at the club liked to talk about since it interfered with his lovable image and they didn’t think it would sell particularly well.  He clenched his hands together and the lightning which had sparked on the robot ref began to coalesce dramatically between his mightily thewed fingers, sparking in shimmering diamond rays and crawling around erotically.

“Oh my god!” shouted Pep’s assistant whose name nobody cared about because it’s Man City.

“What?” said Pep, distracted by Klopp’s brutal handsomeness and aura of extreme manly awesomeness.

“His -- his power level!” said the assistant. “It’s over 1909!”

“Impossible!” said Pep, tearing the seat of his impeccably tailored trousers in surprise. But it was true; one magnificent red wing had sprouted from Klopp’s back and he had begun to hover ever so slightly over the grass in utter defiance of gravity (something Mohamed Salah had not yet learned to do). In the stands, the crowd opened their mouths as one and began to sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” in eerie unison.

He had reached his final form: Sephiklopp.

The Liverpool team seemed to be encouraged by Sephiklopp’s appearance, because they immediately scored 4 goals. 

Pep roared in outrage. Not to be outdone, he stripped out of his ruined trousers and sprinted towards the hovering Sephiklopp. He swiftly dug a hole at the side of the pitch, and buried himself up to the neck, so he resembled a large white egg. His head grew in size, till it was as big as the hovering Sephiklopp. 

Pep smiled. “Now what,” he said. 

“It’s no good, Pep,” called Klopp over the low-level humming noise coming from the rapid movement of his tremendous, glorious wing, “I have the high ground.”

“Do a barrel roll,” said Mikel Arteta from the bench. Everyone looked at him. “What?” he said, “I thought we were doing throwback jokes.”

Everyone ignored him because what does he even do at City, anyway. 

Eggpep began moving through the earth towards Sephiklopp at a speed unachievable by normal humans. Behind him on the pitch, Silva reshaved his head and scored two times, immediately afterwards twisting his ankle, but no one noticed.

Klopp smirked. He knew, as Eggpep clearly didn’t, that ground type managers have disadvantage against flying managers and Pep’s feeble, weak eggtacks would do no damage to his wondrous final form. The wing he had found in the very hip thrift store next to the Abbey Road gift shop had been an excellent purchase, even though it reminded him every time he equipped it of a truly horrible mixtape someone had tried to force on him as he left the area. He focused on the powerful chanting of the away fans instead. Their support sustained him even as his radiating electric aura forced their voices to change cadence in an eerie, copyright-infringing way.  The cameras for once did not seem to care, remaining focused on his fascinating reactions as they usually did. The team played on behind him, forgotten by everyone.

Pep narrowed his eyes in concentration. As the camera focused on him, it seemed to everyone that numbers and figures danced across the screen, like an overused Internet image. Smoke began to pour out of his ears as he thought. Then, with a mighty shout, his egghead popped off of his shoulders and soared through the air like a 19th century cannonball™ ™  ARSENAL ™ ™, striking Sephiklopp full in the chest with a noise like a cash register exploding.

“Where did the rest of his body go?” wondered Milly, but nobody was listening to him. This was turning out to be one of the most exciting matches he had ever played in, even more exciting than that time he had forgotten to lace his left boot with a double knot and had had to do it all over again in the sixty-ninth* minute. It had been so funny.

* _ nice _

Though no one in the stadium seemed to care about the score line anymore, Steven Gerrard pushed his way past the security robots and onto the pitch. He immediately scored 3 goals, then slipped on his way out.*

* _ F** _

_ **gamer joke _  
  


Somehow he managed to yell out an advert for a basic water company as he was carried out by stretcher.

Meanwhile in the sky, the magnificent Sephiklopp was grappling with the Eggpep and roaring. The Eggpep had managed to grow the rest of his body while his outsized head was clasped between Sephiklopp’s (large, loving) thighs. Sephiklopp roared in victory, punching the air again, swivelling on his single wing, while the Liverpool crowd cheered him on. Eggpep dangled pathetically between his thighs, screaming in a soft voice that no one heard. 

“Acknowledge my superiority and infinitely lovable persona!” Klopp verbally bludgeoned Eggpep. “Or I will turn you into a Pepomelet and eat you with a sausage for a late breakfast on a cold, windy Tuesday morning in a clichéd Northern English city!”

“Bitch dizgosting,” spat Eggpep, slightly muffled by Sephiklopp’s sweatpants. 

Somewhere far below, on the earth, one of the two teams scored but it was disallowed for offsides. Thrilling stuff. 

Neil Armstrong drifted by and waved, but the furious tension-filled aerial encounter was occupying both of the managers’ attention spans and they didn’t notice him.

The three remaining people in the world who had been following Pep due to an unnatural and hideous lust for his shining, bald pate promptly unfollowed him for his problematic declaration. Jose Mourinho was now the only person left in the world who cared about the fate and fortune of Manchester City and it was purely because he was still hoping that Pep would end up permanently unemployed so that he would have no choice but to accept a job co-managing a lower league team with him, Jose Mourinho, the most decorated manager of all time and also the most special person to ever have existed on the planet, to avoid certain starvation.  He thought of this often, and he was in fact thinking of it now as he watched the City-Liverpool match streaming on his phone. The sight of Eggpep clenched firmly between Kloppo’s brawny, meaty gams aroused something within his black, shriveled soul which had not been stirred since he forced Iker Casillas out of Real Madrid. He began to get a very special idea.

But Pep was not finished yet. Without warning, he began to rotate at a very high speed, breaking free of Sephiklopp’s firm yet tender grasp. As he spun, objects in low orbit, such as low-flying spacecraft and children’s balloons, began to gravitate towards him, drawn by the force of his irresistible magnetism, and also gravitational pull or something.

He was magnificent and bald, and the sun shone down upon him like a simile. As it concentrated on his unnaturally shiny dome, he turned his head and directed the ray of sunlight at Sephiklopp’s eyes.

Kloppo was dazzled, but not in the way Pep had intended.

Meanwhile, far, far below, Kevin De Bruyne scored five goals in ten minutes, but this was not that impressive, and Pep did not pay it much mind, because he had seen far better in his halcyon days at deeply attractive and yet deeply problematic plucky mid-table underdog team Bayern Munich.

Back in the sky, Klopp slowly took off his glasses. 

“Oh  _ my, _ ” Klopp said. He fluttered closer to the unnerved Eggpep. He reached out his big, reassuring hands, ignoring the high pitched noise of sadness coming from somewhere high above them (in the Bundesliga table). Eggpep watched him as he drifted closer, Sephiklopp’s single wing slowing down. 

“Pep,” Klopp said. He leaned in close. Too close. 

(Far far far below, Liverpool scored 5 goals in ten minutes as well, just to equalize.) (Three of the goals were penalties awarded in dubious circumstances, but since Pep was no longer around to throw Pepbucks at the robot refs, the low down narsty diving tactics of CERTAIN Liverpool strikers had started paying off once more, dizgosting and shameful but THAT’S MODERN FOOTBALL, ROBBIE!!!!)

Back in the sky, things were heating up, or they would have been if heat didn’t just dissipate quite quickly in space, which is a vacuum. 

“Juergen,” said Pep, cautiously. 

“You are...my greatest rival,” rumbled Kloppo in his deepest, most seductive voice. “Here we are, caught in this dance at the top of the table-”

“Actually, it’s us who are in second,” called Harry Kane from like a billion miles away but he mumbled a bit and it wasn’t discernible, also he wasn’t in space. 

“-and let me just say what a thrill it is to tango the tango of the nemesis with you and your deliciously shiny head.”

In the same pub as Harry Kane, a few lads had just turned on the game as well. As they had just been heavily day drinking they had entirely missed the manager fight and therefore turned their attention first to the score line. “My god,” said one, gormlessly, “This seems like it will be a high-scoring game!”

“Can I have some water and salsa?” wailed another at a passing, exasperated waitress who had much better things to do with her time, such as radio messages of love and support to that holy behemoth, Juergen Klopp, in his fight with the great bald Satan whose seduction spell had so sorcerously seduced his good sense with sibilant sounds.  The lads noticed Harry Kane mumbling into his pint. “Hey,” said one. “Are you that guy who was on that British show about castles and shit?”

“Wot,” said Harry Kane, confusedly.

“Never mind,” said the lad. “Boring ass show anyway. Look at this game, it will be like that one game in the World Cup from a few years ago that I didn’t watch because I’m an idiot plastic with no history.”

“Oh,” said Harry Kane, “You don’t see many Man City fans around.” But the lads didn’t understand him so they missed the joke. One of them had already turned around to demand why Mesut Özil wasn’t on the pitch.

Meanwhile, again in space, Kloppo’s electro-radio augmentation had detected the waves of love and support being beamed to him from all around the world -- waves that encouraged him to forget the glowing baldness of his tormentor and remember the luxurious, rapunzel-like tresses of his dearest, sweetest friend, his missing Juliet, his sweet, crinkly, wonderful brain, that most magnificent of men Zeljko Buvac, who had cried actual tears for him in Dortmund a few years ago that had touched even the hardest of disgusting Bayern fan hearts.

“I miss him,” breathed Kloppo, in the bellow of a heartbroken dragon. “I wish he were here.”

“I know,” said Pep, his heart deeply moved, for he was also thinking of someone else who was not here. He was very close now. He reached out and gently put his hand on Kloppo’s incredibly manly and stubbled face. “I know I’m not him. But I am top, top, top, fantastic, top also, super and very tender lover.”

Klopp was breathing harder. He felt something stirring, in his soul (he thought), for Pep was very, very close now. Pep leaned in EVEN FURTHER and closed his eyes. He puckered his lips. Klopp stared, for a fraction of a second, hesitating before taking the final plunge. 

“STOP,” someone screamed. It was Mourinho, on a magic flying school bus. “Do NOT kiss him! He is not your GREATEST, MOST SPECIAL RIVAL. THAT IS  _ ME,  _ THE SPECIAL ONE, JOSE MOURINHO, WITH WHOM YOU MUST SPEND THE REST OF YOUR DAYS COACHING A LEAGUE ONE TEAM-”

Pep stared, unable to believe his eyes. He realised he was still clasping Klopp’s manly, chiselled face in his hands, and slowly let go. He drifted towards Mourinho, still just a giant egg with a normal sized body, for the benefit of readers who forgot, and squeezed his oversized head into the bus. He had beans on his head so they were huge, and Mourinho squeezed them, tenderly, as if to a lover. 

“What is this strange custom,” asked Klopp, since he wasn’t a fucking furry.

“This has to stop,” said one of the authors, and strove on forward. There were no beans. 

“Jose...this bus…” Pep said in wonder, “I have always disparaged this tactic but clearly you have brought it to...a galactic level.”

“That seems like an out of character thing to say,” commented Klopp, but at this point he was still floating very very high in space on a single huge red wing so he frankly didn’t have much of a leg to stand on.

“I am your greatest rival,” barked Mourinho, slowly backing the bus in closer to where Pep’s huge head spun slowly in space, unable to stop due to inertia. “Now you stop the kissy-kissy with this buck-toothed German weirdo and come back down to earth and I will throw a water bottle at you discreetly and maybe we can look at each other intensely.”

“I feel sick!” said a voice from within Mourinho’s magic floating school bus.

“Things like this never happened at my old school,” said another one, in shocked wonder.

“I don’t think we’re old enough to be seeing this,” said another. “Ms Frizzle, can’t you  _ do _ something about this? I really, really think I should’ve stayed home today.”

“Wahoo!” said an over-enthusiastic edutainment style voice. Pep and Mourinho were suddenly ejected from the front of the bus by a strange mechanical arm and the bus spun around and zoomed downwards in a flair of cheaply-animated sparkles.  Without a magic parked bus to protect him in the vacuum of space, Mourinho quickly began to turn blue. He waved his arms but without air could no longer say his very special and very angry words, which were a symphony much better than Arsene Wenger’s, that meshed much better with Sephiklopp’s ominous theme music which could somehow still be heard from the Etihad 50000 miles below them and on the other side of the planet probably by now.

Pep wavered. He looked, uncertainly, at Kloppo, who was still hovering improbably in the vacuum of space. Then he looked at Mourinho, who seemed as indignant about turning blue, of all colors, as he was about his potential death by asphyxiation.

Kloppo nodded at Pep, as if to say, with all the fraught longing of two ships passing in the night, “Go, be free, and forget me, just a Normal Guy.”

Pep rotated closer to Mourinho and caught him expertly by the shoulders. For a moment they hung there, spinning gently, like a top top top. Then Pep lowered his mouth to Mourinho’s and they kissed the kiss of two lovers who have been parted for too long and also one of them is dying of oxygen deprivation, which by necessity dampened the emotion of the situation somewhat.

Klopp watched this tender scene for a minute or two. 

“Hewwo,” said a voice at his elbow. He turned, almost afraid of what he would see, so far up from civilization. He was horrified by what met his gaze. It was a creature, entirely 2D, with a giant, blue, wide open eye. It looked like someone had run over a Liverbird mascot. It was crying, one single, large, teardrop. 

This was the embodiment of Liverpool. It slowly opened its mouth, and Klopp saw, with horror, that it had teeth. 

“Hewwo,” it said again. The sound was very, very loud. Klopp closed his eyes as the creature took him by the arm and yeeted him to the stadium far, far below. 

The game had ended just five minutes ago, with 200 minutes of added time. Liverpool won. 

  
  
  
  


The End. 

 

“De Bruyne,” said Kevin De Bruyne sadly. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
